Quiescent-take of auteurist ego

Visualize ‘moisten’. Tongue tip slipping across lower top to Lip, showing said sheen of saliva. Mouth-stringent. I’ve discovered a furl of this peel and have been thumbing flavedo, pulling at the pith. An unpleasantly bitter twist.

The electrodes formerly wired to this fruit stopped selling 5-cent science. I’ve been staring at the same Freshy for the past several years that it has begun to resemble more than a lemon.

This morning I awoke with sour breath, stinging cut on thumb, principal flavors burning the edge of delusion, my variegated pink cleft burning where its acid denatures the enzymes.

So here’s my theory on fruit: it’s a sex organ. Slice it in half & you’ll find that pentagram shape, star spiraling a wet cluster of seeds small enough to hide the orchard.

And I am soon to sprout a branch.

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